


Day 17: Macro/Micro

by Aichi



Series: Kinktober 2020 [17]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Breasts, F/M, Macro/Micro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27299668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: At this point, "Luard has a sexy magical accident" is practically a cliché.
Relationships: Morfessa/Luard
Series: Kinktober 2020 [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951588
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Day 17: Macro/Micro

**Author's Note:**

> I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO TAG THIS NNGDJHJG but "breasts" on its own.. sure is a tag. And there are, in fact, very prominent breasts here.
> 
> THIS IS ANOTHER TWO-PARTER SORRY BUT I NEEDED TINY LUARD FOR ANOTHER PROMPT AS WELL SO IT WORKS
> 
> If it's not obvious, you can pretty much consider most of my Luarfessa works to be in the same continuity anyway. Maybe I should just put them in a series sometime.

“I’m not even going to ask what happened this time.”

To the ears of a four-inch-tall elf, Morfessa’s voice is an indomitable, rolling peal of thunder, and the sheer _volume_ might have been enough to knock Luard flat on his ass if he wasn’t still half-trapped under the weight of his own suddenly-enormous hat.

It’s not _actually_ enormous, of course; he’s the one who’s shrunk, and it’s a good thing Morfessa’s not asking questions this time, because blaming Uscias never seems to go down well with her — or anyone for that matter — even when it’s _his fault_ , even when he’d assured Luard the mysterious compounds he smuggled back from Dark Zone were both “totally legal, probably” and “definitely safe to experiment with, don’t worry, I promise”. Luard is, charitably speaking, less than interested in getting another earful about “trusting the wrong people”, especially when a single sentence is currently enough to make his brain reverberate in his skull like a bell being struck.

“It’s none of your business anyway,” he says as he wriggles free from under the brim of his hat. From this angle, it looks almost like the decapitated head of some enormous dragon. “Just leave me alone. I know what I’m doing.”

Stumbling over the ocean of fabric that used to be covering his now-naked body, Luard makes for his desk. He doesn’t, of course, have any idea what he’s doing at all, but there’s definitely _something_ in one of his tomes about size-shifting, he’s _sure_ of it, he saw it the other day, when—

He makes it about a foot across the cavernous expanse of his room before leather-gloved fingers close around his torso and scoop him up.

Probably should have expected that.

“‘ _None of my business_ ’?” Morfessa repeats as she raises him to her eye level. The impromptu leather prison is uncomfortably cold against his bare skin, and the curious, suggestive light in the enormous eyes inspecting him does little to warm it. “Are you sure? Because I can think of a lot of ways I could make this… development… _my business_.” 

Probably should have expected _that_ too.

Between his head rattling from the booming of her voice and his arms pinned flat against his sides, Luard can do little to resist as her thumb presses against his cheek with all the strength of a full-force bodily shove. His head rolls, then snaps back upright as she releases the pressure, and he splutters, tries desperately to blink away the blurriness in his eyes and focus on her face again.

Her smile — which he would readily describe as nothing less than _devious_ — fills his entire vision, teeth gleaming white and predatory, the type of look that usually has him turning away to hide the ridiculous, inappropriate flush in his cheeks, except this time there’s nowhere to run. A cursory attempt at wriggling out of her grip only makes her tighten her fingers around his squirming torso, crushing his elbows painfully into the sides of his stomach and forcing a wheezing gasp out of him like air letting out of a balloon.

“Are you sure, Luard?” she asks again, the words clear-cut and deliberate. “Is this or is this not _my business_?”

There’s a kind of awkward standing consent between them by now, after so many of their bizarre, will-they-won’t-they altercations, but she still asks every time, and Luard gives the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod, as he does every time. _It is_ , he wordlessly concedes, because he kind of can’t help but wonder where she’s going with this, and no respectable scientist would pass up the opportunity to learn.

(She likes it best when he _begs_ , of course, but there’s a quiet thrill in her simply _taking_ which they both seem to understand.)

“Mhmm~” Morfessa hums.

Then, with her free hand, she pulls open the collar of her robe and drops him inside.

Luard squawks in shock as he plunges into the dark, heart lurching as he reflexively reaches for threads of mana inside him — _wings_ , he needs wings, he’s falling, falling — and then, before he can shift, he hits something soft, and all at once his body is smothered in fabric, pinning him against what he realizes with skin-searing horror-fascination-arousal is Morfessa’s breast.

Thoughts churn in his brain like storm-tossed seas, and he struggles instinctively against the clinging tightness of Morfessa’s undershirt trapping him skin-to-skin with her; above him, she arranges her collar back into place. He hadn’t even gotten used to _being small_ yet — it’s not that weird, though, really, he’s been _big_ plenty of times, as a dragon, as _a God_ , so this is hardly all that different — but already it doesn’t even seem worth thinking about when Morfessa’s heartbeat is suddenly pulsating through his entire tiny body, roaring in his ears, and _oh fuck, her breast is bigger than he is,_ so _much bigger, and he’s sliding slowly down the curve of it as she— oh_ Messiah _, is she moving? Where’s she going?!_

It’s dizzyingly stifling, both the stale air in such a tight space and the massive body heat enveloping him, pouring itself into him, but the only thing Luard’s brain can process is _her_. She might as well be the entire world now, trapped as he is; every sense is utterly consumed by her, her thunderous, rhythmic heartbeat and the heavy, soapy scent of whatever she washes her skin with, all of it wrapping him up in a neat little helplessly writhing package tossed into the valley between her massive breasts.

When she speaks, it thunders through his bones like a great engine starting up, too loud to even make out the words.

Luard tries to say something, though he doesn’t know _what_ , and as her chest heaves and squashes him roughly between her breasts, it suddenly doesn’t matter anyway. She swells and bounces again, and again, and he distantly thinks that she’s walking somewhere, probably, but he can’t begin to think about that when he’s just the _slightest_ bit preoccupied by the enormous-enough-even-when-he’s-normal-sized-thank-you breasts rolling against him, their skin so soft and smooth that it practically molds to his shape. His limbs are everywhere and nowhere, trapped and then not, flailing uselessly and then pinned down again. It’s like being buffeted between two giant, warm pillows.

Breathing is a problem, he thinks, _definitely a problem_ between the increasingly dry, limited air and the constant, shifting pressure on either side of his chest; he’s starting to feel lightheaded, hazy — but it could be the air, or it could be the smell and heat of _her_ , or the erection that he’s suddenly, awkwardly, painfully aware of, or just some sort of side effect of the concoction that made him this small, or—

Light breaks into the darkness, a sharp ray cutting a bright line across Morfessa’s skin. Luard cringes, buries his face in the warm blanket of her flesh to shield his eyes, but he can’t avoid the blind, groping hand that closes around him and pulls him free like she’s plucking a leech from her skin.

The wide open space outside is blinding, for a moment, but she at least gives him the courtesy of a hand over his head, acting as an umbrella between him and the violently burning lamplight until his tiny eyes have a chance to adjust.

He recognizes, slowly, Morfessa’s room; all neat stacks of books the size of skyscrapers and elegant tapestries that each might as well be an entire Gallows Ball field. Morfessa sets him down gently on her desk, and he winces at the much less gentle sound of wood dragging on wood as she pulls out a chair for herself. Luard quietly puts aside, for later, the fact that she apparently just walked — _openly!_ — through half the castle with him crushed between her breasts.

Before he can say anything, her hand comes down on him again, forcing him to his knees, then onto his back.

“It looks like you enjoyed the stroll,” she purrs, keeping her voice low this time. Her palm rolls over his body, flattening his limbs against the dark wood grain of her desk.

Luard can only wheeze in reply, a pathetic sound which turns into a weak moan at the smooth friction of her sleek leather glove dragging over his dick. She leaves one finger pressed against him, almost painfully hard, and it doesn’t escape him how that single finger absolutely dwarfs his erection. He chokes out a sob as she strokes him, slow and precise, a tiny effortless movement of only a few muscles and yet enough to set his entire body on fire. It’s impossible to ignore now that he’s not trapped against her chest.

“Puh—” he gasps, and can’t escape the crushing feeling that his voice, like the rest of him, is so very small. “Come on— seriously—” He trips over his own thoughts, because _what the hell can he even say about all that_ , and the words disintegrate into a plaintive whine. “Please—”

She hums, again, and he braces for some new and creative trick or torture — but there’s nothing, only her smooth, playful strokes, the sweet caress of leather against the building tightness between his legs. Unbidden, his hips move beneath her ministrations, and he ruts back against her, skin flushed and slick with sweat — sweat that might not be all _his_ — as his fingers scrabble uselessly against polished wood, his vision hazy and clouded with confusion and disorientation and, rising above it all, _arousal_.

He comes almost immediately. It feels too quick, too shameless, but the smell and feel and memory of her chest is so heavy and present in his mind that he can’t stop himself. Pressure builds between his legs, a quickly rising heat nurtured and kneaded by a single one of Morfessa’s fingers, and then explodes, tearing a long, lurid cry from him as bursts of white rope shoot over his stomach. A shudder runs through him, a violent release of pent-up tension, and then, too soon, tired and sticky and spent, he goes limp.

“So quick,” Morfessa chides, wiping the sheen off her glove with a handkerchief. “Don’t worry, I’m not judging.”

“Listen—” Luard starts, breathlessly, but he doesn’t get any further before she dumps the handkerchief over his head, and his words are smothered by a luxurious golden ‘M’ embroidered on the black, silky cloth.

“Clean yourself up,” she orders, a crisp, pointed edge to her tone.

“Yeah, yeah.”

It takes Luard a while to move, his chest heaving with the aftershocks of barely-satisfying orgasm. Eventually, though, he summons the energy to throw the handkerchief off and stagger to his feat, clumsily wiping his come off his stomach. It does little to actually wipe away the feeling of stickiness itself, but it’s a start.

“Okay,” he manages, slowly catching his breath, “okay, that was—”

Trailing off isn’t so much a lack of articulation as it is a plea for her to not make him say it, to finish the sentence for him, but Morfessa simply leans on her elbow and looks down at him with infuriatingly smug satisfaction.

“—It was good, okay?” he finishes, spluttering the words out indignantly. What the hell is he supposed to say? _Gee, thanks, Morfessa, I really like your breasts_? She’d probably kill him on the spot. _Thanks for jerking me off, except it wasn’t even really that, because my dick is like, the size of your fingernail_? He settles, finally, for: “Can we work on changing me back now?”

Morfessa smiles, and shakes her head, and Luard’s survival instincts light up like a forest on fire.

“Oh, Luard,” she says, dangerously sweetly, “I am _so_ far from being done with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this one took three days to post aaaaaaAAAAA I'll try and be faster next time T_T I keep saying this.
> 
> Twitter: @cosmowreath


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